


P is for Plushie

by Janieshi



Series: Alphabet [16]
Category: Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Humor, Friendship, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-23
Updated: 2016-06-23
Packaged: 2019-10-09 19:02:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17412464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Janieshi/pseuds/Janieshi
Summary: In which General Grumman gets crafty, Hawkeye and Catalina reap the benefits, and Mustang is deeply confused about pretty much everything.





	P is for Plushie

_Plushie/ˈplə-shē/ noun – a diminutive term for a stuffed animal or soft toy; a type of doll made from fabric and filled with any type of soft stuffing._

* * *

 

As if riding in the back of a truck with a dozen noisy chickens wasn’t bad enough, the rain didn’t let up for the entire trip. Colonel Mustang and his Lieutenant huddled miserably together under Hawkeye’s overcoat (the only one they had between them), but of course they were both soaked to the skin by the time they arrived in East City.

One look at Mustang’s bleak expression and slumped shoulders had Hawkeye’s compassionate nature overruling her strict adherence to regulations.

“My place is nearby, sir. We can clean up there before we head in to report,” she offered. “Change into dry clothes, at least.” Surprise cut through the haze of Mustang’s fatigue, and he rallied just enough to offer her a small, grateful smile.

“I’d appreciate that, Lieutenant,” he managed.

He didn’t dare ask if she was sure it wouldn’t be an imposition, because of course it would be. But he couldn’t bear the thought of the showers in the locker rooms of HQ, with the temperamental water heater and dubiously clean stalls. And if he staggered back to his own apartment, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to resist the siren call of his soft, warm bed, and the information they had was too sensitive to wait. They had time enough for a hurried shower each, but sleep was out of the question for the moment.

The next thing he knew, Mustang was dripping cold water all over Riza’s foyer. He didn’t even remember getting into a cab. Hawkeye gently nudged him in the direction of the bathroom, wincing when she remembered the lingerie she’d left hanging over the curtain rod to air dry. But Roy simply stared through them, unseeing, so she dropped his bag at their feet and briskly gathered her delicates into a tidy bundle in her arms.

“Towels are in the cupboard, sir, and there’s your bag,” she said, hiding her faint embarrassment under her usual businesslike demeanor.

“Ah, thanks,” Mustang replied, shaking his head a little as if to clear it. “When did I take off my boots?” he wondered aloud.

“Never mind that, sir,” Hawkeye said. “Leave your wet things. I’ll send your uniform in to be cleaned with mine and get it back to you next week,” she added.

“Yes, ma’am,” he retorted cheekily.

Hawkeye resisted the urge to smack her superior officer’s arm, but it was a close thing. She did indulge in an eye-roll, and then she was closing the door behind herself, and – wait, had she been holding an armful of panties?

Mustang sighed. Damn this stupid mission. And damn the cold, the rain, the mud, and the sleepless nights that had left him swaying with miserable exhaustion in the middle of his subordinate’s bathroom without enough wit left to tease her properly for leaving undergarments hanging in the shower.

Shower. Right. Better get on with it. Hawkeye was cold and wet and dirty, too, and this was her home. He didn’t remember her insisting on his taking the first turn, but he knew she would’ve done…assuming he’d even put up an argument in his state. Least he could do was be quick about it.

The first blast of water was icy cold, and Mustang was glad of it. The initial shock of the cold water cleared his head enough to finish his ablutions with his usual efficiency, in spite of his desire to linger in the soothing warmth of the shower spray.

His spare uniform was wrinkled and filthy, although at least it was dry. He’d packed some civilian clothing as well, of course, and some of it was even clean. It wouldn’t quite be appropriate, but…it wasn’t as if General Grumman would hold him to the usual spit-and-polish standard of the military dress code at this hour, and bearing the information he did. Not that Grumman was precisely a strictly by-the-book man to begin with.

Mustang nodded decisively and dressed in his last clean set of civilian clothes. Regulations be damned; at this point, everyone was just lucky he’d be showing up wearing pants at all, he thought. Still grumbling a little under his breath, he left the bathroom in a small cloud of steam and went to tell Hawkeye the shower was free.

He found her in the tiny kitchen, leaning over the stove. Having shed her wet things while she waited, Riza wore only a flimsy white tank top with an old pair of sweats. Roy could see the goosebumps standing out on her arms from across the room. Part of her tattoo was visible too, where it peeked out from under the thin tank. He had the sudden childish urge to cling to her; to press his face against those livid lines and weep.

Perhaps sensing his gaze, Hawkeye glanced over her shoulder with a faint frown on her lips. Mustang took a deep breath, intending to greet her, and was promptly assailed by the enticing scent of onions, chicken and garlic. His mouth watered in anticipation, but it took another moment for his brain to catch up. During his brief sojourn in the bathroom, Hawkeye had somehow found the time to heat up some soup.

Mustang might have kissed her, had he not been certain of the sharp right hook that would follow. It would probably be worth it. God, when had they last eaten, anyway? Was it still today, or was it late enough to be tomorrow already?

Wait, had he said that part out loud?

“Sit,” Hawkeye was insisting gently, as she pushed a spoon into Mustang’s hand and guided him over to the kitchen table. “Eat.”

“Ah, thank you,” he managed, dropping heavily into a chair. Hawkeye placed a steaming bowl in front of him, along with a hunk of warm, crusty bread. His stomach growled insistently, but he couldn’t help but notice there was only one place setting. “Aren’t you going to join me?” he asked.

“I already had some,” she replied. Mustang frowned up at her, uncertain. Knowing his Lieutenant, she’d eaten a few bites at most, probably cold, while the portion she’d set aside for him was still warming. She laid a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t worry about me, sir. I’ll be out in just a few minutes. Try not to fall asleep in your soup while I’m gone.”

“Death by chicken noodle,” Mustang huffed. “Doesn’t sound so bad, actually.”

Hawkeye rewarded his pathetic attempt at humor with a small, tired smile before disappearing into the bathroom. She needn’t have worried about accidental drowning, really. He’d wolfed down half of his generous portion before she’d even turned on the water.

Listening to the squeak and groan of the ancient plumbing, Mustang absently finished his meal and tried not to think about how comfortable Hawkeye’s couch looked. A five minute nap wouldn’t hurt, right?

No. Best not risk it. He rose to wash his bowl, and then cast about for another distraction.

It had been a while since he’d last seen the interior of Hawkeye’s apartment. He wandered over to peruse the tall bookshelf in the living area (deliberately turning his back on the temptation of the very cozy-looking couch). He smiled on recognizing several of the titles on the top shelf. Old familiar friends, these were. He remembered the passionate discussions he and Riza had had on this one and that one... and he still had the copy of that well-loved favorite, somewhere, which she’d given him as a going away present.

Ah, here was something different: a framed photograph he’d never noticed, of Riza and Rebecca Catalina. It seemed to be an older photo – Riza’s hair was still worn cropped close, and she had on a dress he didn’t recognize. She was leaning in close to her friend, and each girl had an arm slung across the other’s shoulders. They’d been captured mid-laugh, and Roy found himself smiling reflexively at the radiant joy on their faces. When had this been taken?  Was it from their time together at the academy?

Riza looked so _happy_ in this photo. So…innocent.

Roy’s heart gave a painful twinge, and he carefully replaced the picture where he’d found it. He poked half-heartedly at a decorative candle on shelf below it (vanilla, barely used, probably a gift) and at a second framed photo of their teammates, a duplicate of one he had sitting on his desk at home. A handful of paperbacks he didn’t recognize, several hardbacks he did, and…what the-? Was that a stuffed animal?

A stuffed _bunny_ , in fact. With soft, fluffy peach-colored fur, long floppy ears lined with delicate pink silk, and a perfectly adorable little white poof of a tail.

Marveling, Roy turned the rabbit over and over in his hands. Why on earth would Hawkeye have a stuffed bunny displayed on her bookshelf? Where had it even come from? He was certain he’d never seen it before, which made it more likely to be recent acquisition than a childhood toy. It was such a cuddly bunny, too, with exactly the sort of soft fuzziness that just demanded to be rubbed against one’s cheek...

“ _Step away from the plushie, Colonel_ ,” Hawkeye’s voice snapped out from behind him.

Mustang yelped and spun to face his Lieutenant, holding the rabbit out in front of him like a shield.

“I-I was just…I’m sorry, I –” he stammered in confusion.

Hawkeye, looking as fresh as a newly-minted cadet from the crisp lines of her jacket all the way to her perfectly pressed trousers, plucked the bunny out of his hands without a word. She placed it almost reverently on the shelf it had been sitting on, and then turned to him with a carefully blank face.

“Shall we go, sir?” she asked pointedly. Mustang glanced from his Lieutenant to the plushie and back again. She arched an eyebrow, daring him to comment.

“Yes, I think we’d better,” he finally said meekly.

As he followed her out of her apartment, he decided he must’ve hallucinated the whole thing. After all, sleep deprivation did funny things to a person.

* * *

Some weeks later, Mustang walked into General Grumman’s office for their usual game of chess. He stopped dead in his tracks when he spotted the self-same plush bunny in his boss’s hands.

“I can...come back later, sir,” he offered, uncertainly.

Grumman, who had just plunged a needle into the rabbit’s ear, simply hummed.

“No need, my boy. I’m almost done here. Sit down, sit down!”

Warily, Mustang obeyed. There was a small box on the desk in front of Grumman, packed with spools of thread in various colors as well as scissors, books of needles and a small pincushion in an eye-searing shade of red. It seemed to be made to resemble a tomato. What in heaven’s name was going on here?

“I, uh, I didn’t know you could sew, sir,” Mustang ventured after a few seconds.

“Oh my, yes. I find it very relaxing!” the older man said, calmly continuing his task. “I was just repairing this rabbit for my granddaughter.”

“Oh?” Mustang choked.

“Mm. Seems her puppy managed to get a hold of it, the little scamp. Tore the ear clean off. She was rather upset about it, since this little fella was one of the first gifts I ever gave her,” he explained as he tied off the thread. “Made it myself, you see; something of a hobby of mine. I hand-picked the fabric and everything.”

“I see…”

“Anyway, I promised I’d fix it up as good as new for her. I made her a cute gray elephant and a darling little white and purple horse, too, at various times. But she says Duchess Peachy von Fluffibottom is her favorite.”

“Peachy von…what?” Mustang repeated weakly.

“I was so sure she’d like Lady Lorelai Lilachooves the best - that’s the horse. You know how girls are about ponies. But then I suppose she grew out of that long ago…the bunny, though, well,” he laughed softly. “I don’t know that I can top that one. Nostalgia is a powerful thing, my boy.”

“I…I see,” Mustang stuttered, utterly lost. Hawkeye? Naming her stuffed animals, really?

“No,” Grumman chuckled. “You have no idea what I’m on about, do you? But that’s all right. Can’t have you horning in on my turf, now can we?” He wagged his forefinger (which still had a small silver thimble on the end of it) at Mustang. “Plush toys are my gig, you hear? You’d better find some other gift to woo my grandbaby with.”

“I…okay?” Mustang replied, more confused than ever. “I mean, wait, no, I’m not _wooing_ anyone!” he sputtered. Before he could embarrass himself further, Catalina popped her head into the office.

“Is the Duchess finished yet, sir?” she asked. Grumman beamed at her and held up the bunny with a triumphant little flourish. “Oh, great! Riza’ll be thrilled. Can I go take it back to her, now? Pretty please?” she begged.

“And have you claim credit for my hard work?” Grumman scoffed. “I think not, my dear.” Catalina snorted.

“Please, Riza knows full well I can’t sew a button back on, much less fix something like this,” she said, reaching for the rabbit with a beseeching expression. “Besides, who stole it for you in the first place, old man?” Grumman relinquished it with a little huff.

“Fine, fine. But you make sure that girl of mine knows who sent you.”

“Yes, sir, I’ll let her know,” Rebecca replied.

“And Becky?” Rebecca grimaced at the nickname but didn’t comment on it.

“Yes, sir?” she said simply. Grumman held out a small paper bag.

“Happy birthday, my dear,” he beamed. Rebecca gasped, shoved the rabbit into Mustang’s hands, and tore open the paper bag. Inside was a small pastel pink rabbit, nearly identical to the peach-colored one that Mustang now held as gingerly as if it were a live grenade.

“General! You! You made me one to match Riza’s!” Rebecca cried, delighted. She bounded over to press a noisy kiss to the old man’s cheek but danced away before he could pinch her ass. “I love it; thank you!”

“You’re most welcome, my dear,” he replied, grinning indulgently. “So what will you call this one?”

O _hhh_ , thought Mustang. _Catalina_ had come up with the ludicrous names, and not Hawkeye at all. No, that made more sense. Balance was restored to the universe.

“Hm, what’s the rank under a Duchess? Baroness?” Rebecca was asking.

“Mm, let me think… it goes Marchioness, Countess, Vicountess, and _then_ Baroness,” Grumman supplied.

“Ooh, Marchioness sounds fancy. How about…Marchioness Rosie St. Pinkcheeks?” she suggested.

“Perfect!” Grumman laughed.

Pausing only to snag the peach-colored rabbit out of Mustang’s slack grip, Rebecca darted off again, presumably to find her friend and show her the newest addition to General Grumman’s line of Whimsically Named Plush Toys.

Mustang stared after her for a moment, his expression a bit gob-smacked. Grumman watched him, calculating.

Was he wondering, as Grumman often did, how two such vastly different women had first become and then remained friends? Or was he fixated on the plush toys? Perhaps he would think less of his staid Lieutenant over this perceived childish streak, or take her less seriously…but no, Mustang was smarter than that. He must have realized immediately that Hawkeye tolerated Grumman’s unusual gifts only because she appreciated the sentiment behind them. And because she understood his desire to express his affection in a tangible way; to fulfil the grandfatherly role he’d missed out on when his only grandchild had been of an age to truly _appreciate_ plush toys. Perhaps Mustang was simply surprised that a serious woman like Hawkeye indulged her grandfather to such an extent. Or perhaps he was still wondering whether he’d hit his head and imagined the whole exchange, Grumman thought with a grin.

“Are you quite all right, my boy?” he asked at last. Mustang started slightly and shifted forward in his chair. He met his superior’s eye with his habitual smirk, composure apparently restored.

“So,” he said calmly. “What’d Catalina name the elephant?”

**Author's Note:**

> Dedicated to Frei Gerit, who requested a fic in which Hawkeye owns an old bear or other stuffed animal with a ridiculous name. 
> 
> For anyone who was curious, the elephant is called The Honorable Elvin Ellingham of Tuskingtonshire.


End file.
